Draven was in a good mood. He had definitely taken a bit of advantage—nothing over the top, but holding a beautiful elven maiden in his arms? Honestly, it felt… pretty nice.

  The Sylvia before him was no longer the cat-eared girl from earlier. Her figure had grown taller, more graceful, her curves more elegant. Yet that soft, heart-stirring aura of hers hadn't changed at all. More importantly, all the things he liked about her were still there.

  Sylvia's face was as red as a ripened apple. She had been raised in the Elven Sacred Land, receiving the most traditional and conservative upbringing. Aside from her father and a few elderly mentors, hardly any man had ever come close to her. Now this impolite werewolf had not only hugged her but even flashed that thoughtful, almost wicked smile that made her heart race in confusion.

  "Saint Sylvia, let's stop beating around the bush," Draven said with a relaxed smile, though his eyes carried a trace of mischief."You want the holy sword back. Then your people should be willing to pay a price, no? You're not stupid."

  He made no effort to hide his scheming. Giving something away for free? He wasn't that dumb.

  Sylvia pressed her lips together and took a deep breath. Her momentary embarrassment passed quickly, and she regained her composure. She was young, yes, but not unfamiliar with political dealings. Elves were proud—but not foolish.

  She could tell Draven wasn't really trying to extort them. He was testing her, trying to see where she stood.

  "Lord Draven," Sylvia raised her head, her blue eyes meeting his directly,"as long as you return the holy sword, the Elven Kingdom will meet any conditions you name."

  "Any conditions?" Draven nearly blurted out"Does that include you?" but held it back—not out of shame, but because the timing wasn't right. He could joke, but he couldn't reveal his hand too soon.

  Besides, he honestly hadn't decided what he wanted yet. He knew almost nothing about the elves—not even what their homeland looked like. If he threw out a demand now and lowballed himself, wouldn't that be a loss?

  He blinked, his mind racing. The girl before him clearly wasn't the calculating type. She wasn't acting. She was genuinely pure.

  So Draven dropped the act and took out the overly ornate holy sword from his storage ring.

  He'd never thought much of the thing. With its gemstone-covered blade, it looked more like a royal ceremonial prop than a battlefield weapon. He'd nearly tossed it away as scrap metal—would have, if Sylvia hadn't mentioned it.

  The moment Sylvia saw the sword, her expression changed. She looked as though she were beholding a sacred relic. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached out.

  She received the holy sword with the tenderness of holding a newborn. A warm white light flowed from her palms, down her slender fingers, and into the blade.

  Draven froze. Just moments ago, he'd been internally mocking the sword's gaudy appearance. Now, for the first time, he was truly awed. The light radiating from it carried a purity and majesty that defied description—as if heaven itself had descended.

  He could feel something divine in the air, and even the ground beneath his feet seemed to tremble faintly. The Elven Holy Sword… was awakening.

  As more light poured in, the gem-encrusted blade began to shine with a blinding brilliance. The jewels came alive, each one pulsating like a beating heart.

  Then, in a flash, the light peaked. The sword vibrated once, then slipped from Sylvia's hands and transformed into a silver streak of light that shot into the sky—soaring southward like a meteor.

  Draven's eyes widened. His hand instinctively reached out, but it was far too late.

  "I swear, that wasn't me," he muttered under his breath, worried the Saint would somehow blame him.

  But Sylvia showed no panic. Instead, she looked to the sky with a look of relief.

  "The Holy Sword knows the way home," she said softly, a serene smile blooming on her face."It will return on its own."

  Draven raised a brow."It has auto-navigation?"

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  Sylvia didn't answer. She simply lifted her skirt slightly and gave him a graceful, solemn bow.

  "Thank you, Lord Draven. You have fulfilled a mission that has eluded the Elven Kingdom for thousands of years. On behalf of all my people, I offer you our sincerest gratitude."

  Her voice wasn't loud, but every word came from the heart. This was not a performance. It was the release of two centuries' worth of burden and emotion.

  Draven didn't know what to say. He simply nodded in response.

  Seeing his silence, Sylvia asked,"Then, my lord, what kind of reward do you seek?"

  Her tone was no longer strained. It now carried a gentle trust. She was truly prepared to accept whatever condition he might name—even if it went beyond her expectations.

  Draven, however, only smiled.

  "I haven't decided yet. I just hope that the Saint will honor her word—and stay by my side until I do."

  Sylvia was clearly taken aback, her brows furrowing slightly. She hadn't expected the werewolf to make such a request. But soon her frown softened, and her gaze grew a little gentler.

  In fact, from the moment she arrived here, her mission had already been fulfilled. She no longer needed to nourish the sleeping holy sword daily with her life force. She was finally free—not the saint endlessly dragged by fate, pondering life and death every day and night.

  Moreover, she was growing increasingly curious about this half-beast werewolf. Unlike other men who tried to flatter her, and unlike the refined elven males, he was rough and straightforward, even a bit rogue-like. Yet, she did not dislike him.

  "Alright." Sylvia nodded slowly, the corners of her eyes lifting to reveal a mischievous smile. Then, she gently took out the silvery-white mask from her bosom and, under Draven's watchful eyes, placed it on her face.

  In the next instant, a soft light shimmered around her silhouette. Her form rapidly shrank, fur appeared, and her ears elongated—her familiar cat-girl appearance returned.

  "This is a magical item, quite rare," Sylvia explained proactively when she saw the werewolf's surprised look.

  In truth, this mask was not only a rare magical artifact but also the most precious personal treasure of every saint throughout history.

  It allowed those saints, destined to die young, to find a little happiness that belonged solely to themselves in their brief lives. It wasn't meant to disguise identity, but to live as an ordinary person.

  Having come to terms, staying in this small forest surrounded by thick fog and trees no longer made sense.

  Draven waved his large hand and beckoned her to mount. He sat up front and casually pulled the cat-girl into his arms, cheerfully patting the neck of the Nightmare Horse.

  "Let's go home."

  The Nightmare Horse uttered a low whinny, its four hooves releasing faint blue magical energy, soaring into the sky. Winds blew from all directions, but Sylvia, nestled in the werewolf's arms, felt warmer than before.

  That faint masculine scent continuously filled her nose, making her blush and feel flushed.

  Instinctively, she tried to move forward a little, but before she could, the Nightmare Horse suddenly dove downward. She stumbled and collided directly into Draven's chest, burying her face against him.

  Draven laughed heartily and tightened his arms, holding her even closer."Don't move, you'll fall off."

  He knew perfectly well she wouldn't fall, but he just wanted an excuse to hold her longer.

  During the ride, he laughed freely, spouting nonsense, blaming all unexpected contact on the Nightmare Horse.

  But Draven was not idle. In their conversation, he finally grasped some key points.

  Sylvia's solo journey this time was indeed for a reason. Though the elves were powerful, they were not truly welcome on half-beast territories. Besides the longstanding enmity with the blood elves, other half-beast clans were unfriendly toward their presence.

  Especially saints like Sylvia, radiating holy aura and noble labels, were too dazzling and thus became a source of trouble.

  Too few guards couldn't protect her; too many would provoke the half-beasts and spark greater conflict.

  And only the saint herself could sense the precise location of the holy sword. Not even the strongest elven warriors could replace her in the task. So she had to come alone.

  "Also, there's only one mask."

  Sylvia, back in her cat-girl form, leaned against him and added casually,"The teachers each have their duties. No one can accompany me at all times for this indefinite mission."

  "Do you really believe nothing will happen if you come alone?" Draven looked down at her.

  "It wouldn't have, if you hadn't acted so quickly. Otherwise, I wouldn't have lost so easily," Sylvia muttered, her eyes curved into a smile with no real anger.

  Draven looked at her flushed cheeks and couldn't help feeling proud. No way—she was exactly his type.

  He deliberately slowed the Nightmare Horse's pace, flying steadily to hold her a little longer. Since she was with him now, there was no rush to get home. The journey was more interesting than the destination.

  Meanwhile, far to the south in the elven kingdom, beneath the sky they sped through,

  A massive palace surrounded by vines and a sea of trees was hosting the kingdom's council meeting. Elf King Sigurd sat on a golden throne, discussing border affairs with elders and ministers.

  Suddenly, he raised his head sharply, his gaze seeming to pierce through the ceiling.

  The holy emblem on his crown began to shine, and a sacred aura filled the entire hall, impossible to ignore.

  The sky split with a golden pillar of light, and a dazzling sword of light descended from the heavens, soaring straight toward the royal palace.

  Sigurd sprang to his feet, face filled with awe. He raised his right hand and caught the beam of light precisely.

  Before the astonished eyes of all present, the sword's radiance gradually retracted, revealing its intact blade—holy, elegant, and full of power.

  "The holy sword!" someone in the council exclaimed, voice trembling with reverence and excitement.

  Sigurd gripped the hilt tightly, his expression calm and solemn. He slowly drew the sword, and the silver light instantly illuminated the entire hall.

  "Alfheim shall be great once more," he declared, raising the sword high. His voice echoed throughout the chamber like a vow, like a hymn.